


secretkeeper

by TheGodWith5Yen



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Force Sensitive Omera, Friendship/Love, Gen, Jedi Omera, POV Omera (Star Wars), Planet Sorgan (Star Wars), Secret Identity, Trust, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29947968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGodWith5Yen/pseuds/TheGodWith5Yen
Summary: The braid had been cut off with a viroblade by the swift hands of her savior (her brother, her father, her best friend). He was a clone, one who had yelled at his brothers for their betrayal before running to grab Omera at her master’s shout. Omera could not remember how they had survived, how they had made it away from the Purge, but she could remember blaster fire and harsh breaths and how Zoë’s reassuring, calm voice had spoke to her through it all. Omera had tucked her face in his armor and held on so tight that she had flecks of paint underneath her fingernails when they were gone and safe.The lightsaber she had made had been discarded along with her braid.____________________________________________________OR: Omera was raised within the Jedi Order and had hidden that part of herself for years. Until she meets a Mandalorian who she feels she can share this secret with.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera, Omera & Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Mandomera Week 2021





	secretkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of like hesitant to post this and it is really Omera-centric, but I wrote this for the intention of mandomera week day 2: trust/vulnerability and you know what?? we deserve more omera-centric stories anyways so <3 please enjoy <3

She had been too young for the braid that graced her head, just behind her right ear with a single bead that she had marveled at when her master had stuck it into her hair, but Omera had worn it with pride. Not many others her age had the honor to be chosen so young, but  _ she  _ had been. In preparation, Omera’s hair had been cut much shorter than she had it beforehand—not as short as the young human boys she had seen wear their hair, but her hair had been given straight bangs and was short enough that the back of her hair was just underneath her earlobes. 

Omera had liked it. 

Before it would become easily tangled (“Now look at that bird's nest Omera,” her crèchemaster used to cry out before grabbing a wooden comb and sitting Omera onto their lap, pulling and tugging at the tangles with rough strokes. Omera had cried large warm tears, but would smile at her crèchemaster despite them each and every time). But the length it was when she became a Padawan made her feel light and invincible. Foolish, in retrospect. 

She had been too young. 

And, when the war ended, she had been far too young for what had followed. 

The braid had been cut off with a viroblade by the swift hands of her savior (her brother, her father, her best friend). He was a clone, one who had yelled at his brothers for their betrayal before running to grab Omera at her master’s shout. Omera could not remember how they had survived, how they had made it away from the Purge, but she could remember blaster fire and harsh breaths and how Zoë’s reassuring, calm voice had spoke to her through it all. Omera had tucked her face in his armor and held on so tight that she had flecks of paint underneath her fingernails when they were gone and safe.

The lightsaber she had made had been discarded along with her braid. 

Zoë taught her how to hold a blaster. 

The only weapon she had held before a blaster was her lightsaber, and even then she knew that a lightsaber was not a weapon, but an extension of herself. It hadn’t been very long before the weight of a blaster was familiar in her hands and strapped against her back. If she tried to think about it, the memory of a blaster in her hands shadowed any lightsaber or practice saber. When Omera turned twelve Zoë had gifted her with a sporting blaster pistol, small and standard enough to fit nicely against her hip or hidden beneath her too-large clothes. Omera had grinned widely when Zoë had given her the gift, hugging him around the waist as she rushed off to test it. The pistol was much smaller than some of the blasters she had been trained with and, at times, it felt more like a toy than a tool. 

But Omera always listened to Zoë:

No playing around with blasters. 

No use of the Force. 

_ Always  _ keep her head low. 

Make sure no one saw Zoë’s face, no matter the situation. 

At fourteen standard years old Zoë had shaved off Omera’s hair. Until then, she had been growing it long and kept in simple braids that he would maintain. Zoë kept his hair long as well, twisted into two little braided buns on the side of his head that would get squashed underneath the helmet he wore. However, a bounty they had taken together had gone wrong (the bounty had wrapped their hands into her hair and pulled at her, attempting to use her as leverage before Omera had found her footing to kick them in a soft spot and duck out of the way as Zoë shot them) and Zoë had silently stressed himself to the point that Omera had chopped off most of her hair to assure him that nothing like that would happen again. 

Which resulted in him shaving it down. 

Omera had looked odd. She remembered staring at herself whenever she passed a mirror. Her ears and eyes had looked too big for her head. On their bounce around Outer Rim planets, she would get called ‘young man’ and ‘sweet boy,’ which served as a good cover for them both. If anyone in the Empire was still looking for Omera, they wouldn’t see that young child in the face of a big-eared, wide-eyed boy. 

Omera missed her messy, tangled hair and the way Zoë would ruffle it and braid it and would make her look like a new person with each style. 

She hated her shaved head. 

Sorgan had originally been planned as a short respite. 

However, it was there that Zoë had met Esaias. He was a strong, short man with tattoos along his arms that depicted waves and faces of Mon Calamari people. Esaias had been raised by a Mon Calamari mother, a long retired pilot who had been executed by the Empire for her outspoken rebellious sentiment in Core World terriotries. After his mother's death, Esaias had fled from the Core and settled on Sorgan, where a small krill farming village was set up. There weren’t many others, but they were slowly thriving and welcomed new people with care and ease. 

They stayed for three days. 

Then a week. 

Then a month. 

Then it became clear to Omera that they were not going to leave. 

Omera had been content with the thought. Happy. Sorgan was beautiful and the village was full of people that she felt could be a family,  _ her  _ family. For so long it had simply been her and Zoë, and before that the Jedi Order, so she would observe how everyone would interact with one another and grin widely into her knees whenever an adult would treat her like they treated their own child. 

Omera’s connection to the Force was weak without use, but some days she would have dreams that felt like reality, a potential, and she knew that it had been the Force. Despite the safety of Sorgan, she didn’t dare purposely use the Force. The risk was too much, especially as the village and its people became home. 

Little Winta had the pull of the Force within her veins and it terrified Omera. She had cried onto Zoë’s shoulder, who rubbed at her back and assured her that there was nothing for her to fear. She felt as though she was that child again, so young and fragile and small, held in his arms as the world fell apart around her ears. Her daughter's Force Sensativity could go unnoticed, so long as Omera made the lingering pull of her own to push away from making any bonds and fostering the skill that lay with them both. 

It had been difficult at times, but it was for the best. 

To use the Force would only invite unwanted attention. 

Each year passed and Winta was like every other child in the village. 

The Empire fell. 

Not long after the fall of the Empire, Zoë passed away, a smile on his face. “I kept you safe,” he had whispered to Omera as she held onto his frail hand. It was not fair, he shouldn’t be so old, look so old, but the aging of clones was much faster and crueler than for unaltered, natural-born humans. “The Empire is gone and you’re safe.” 

“You’ve been with me my whole life,” Omera had sniffed as she kissed his liver-spotted hands. How could she live on without Zoë around? 

“And I’ll continue to be even when I’m gone Commander.” Zoë said the title with a small, secret smile. He had called her Commander when her master had taken her as a Padawan, so young and small and not ready for field work in the slightest. She had been lucky enough not to be put on the battlefield like her master would be from time-to-time, but Zoë and the other clones in his battalion had treated her with the respect she had seen given to Senior Padawans. Omera let out a small sob and shook her head. She felt as he joined the Living Force. 

The clone template had been a Mandalorian, who had taught some of the early batches of clones their language and legends. Zoë had not been taught by the template, but he had been taught by his brothers how to speak Mando’a and what it meant to be a Mandalorian. He was a Mandalorian in heart, they all were, and Omera drank up all she could from Zoë in her youth. Which was why when the Mandalorian came to their village, Omera was nothing less than intrigued by him. 

He was  _ different _ . 

The man never took his helmet off around others. He was quiet, but not secretive, just quiet. It was like he took everything in and was careful to be respectful of what he saw. His child, small and green and utterly adorable, held a familiarness not only in the stark resemblance shared between him and Master Yoda, but something deeper and untouched by Omera in the years since she had Winta. She refused to dig deeper and prove her suspicions, but she wondered if the Mandalorian knew about the power within his child. 

She loved him, the Mandalorian with no name or face, but with a heart on his sleeve the size of the galaxy and an undenible charm to his soothing presence. Omera loved him and despite being unable to share her secrets with him, she wanted to. She wanted to tell him and to hold him and to be near him and the peace he brought. When she asked him to stay, he hesitated, for a moment so long Omera’s heart swelled. 

The love was unspoken, just as Omera’s secrets were. Perhaps, she thought as she watched his ship leave the atmosphere, it was for the best.

They laid together, side by side, their bare hands touching as they glanced up at the sky. With the night came an undeniable, clear quiet as the village’s people stayed asleep and within their homes. Winta and the child, Grogu, had been left curled up together in a makeshift fort of blankets and pillows. Omera let her fingers caress along his palm, feeling the lines and curves, so telling and beautiful. He had been back for weeks now and would be leaving again soon. 

“I have a duty,” he had explained to her when Omera had asked, pulling out a hilt from his belt. The familiarity had nearly made Omera step back when she recognized it for what it was—a lightsaber. It had been years since Omera had seen one (discarded along with the braid she had been so proud to wear at such a young age) and it took her breath away as the Mandalorian ignited the blade. It was black and stunning. Nothing like any lightsaber she had ever seen. “There is a Jedi who will come to train Grogu while I am gone.” 

Omera had felt like she was going to break down. A Jedi. A Jedi! How could there be a Jedi? She had heard rumors, whispers from people who passed through, but she couldn’t believe it. “A Jedi? I always thought they were tales.” She wondered if her smile seemed genuine; Omera couldn’t feel her face in the sudden bout of information the Mandalorian was telling her.

The Mandalorian had tilted his head to the side as he shut off the saber and hooked it back to his belt. The hand that held it pressed to her cheek, so warm, and he had asked after her. After Omera had assured him she was well, he had nodded. “His name is Bridger. He trained under a Jedi who survived the Clone Wars.” Omera had nearly lost her breath. She wanted to know the name of the Jedi who had survived. Would she recognize them?

Now, as they lay together the day before the Mandalorian was to leave, Omera felt her truth lingering on the tip of her tongue. She trusted him with her life, and he trusted her with his. Omera turned onto her side, still touching his hand with hers, and watched his helmet-clad face. She could see his neck, the black flight suit he wore lowered slightly enough to reveal dark skin. In the weeks since he arrived back on Sorgan, Omera had pressed kisses to his hands and helmet and even where the Mudhorn signet rested on his shoulder, and she found herself longing to press her lips to his neck. The Mandalorian shifted his head slightly, enough for her to know he was no longer glancing at the sky. 

“All my life I’ve been keeping a secret.” Omera whispered, too afraid to raise her voice. She closed her eyes and set her forehead to his helmet before pulling away. The Mandalorian squeezed her hand. 

“Whatever it is, I—I won’t think differently of you.” 

Omera swallowed.

She opened her mouth. 

And she began. 

All the while she spoke, the Mandalorian held onto her hand, a steady weight in her grasp. When she finished, he was silent before, in a whisper, he told her his story. Omera laid her head onto his chest and listened to his story and his short modulated breaths throughout. His bare hand moved through her long hair. As he finished, Omera twisted to kiss at his chestplate as she said, “I love you.”

The Mandalorian’s fingers caught at a tangle in her hair and Omera laughed as she helped him unstick his fingers. They sat up together, Omera carefully guiding his hand out of her hair before she pushed the tangle out of her hair. “I love you too Omera. I love you.” Omera glanced at the Mandalorian, her hand still in her hair, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) what do you mean it wasn't Ezra Bridger who showed up at the end of s2 and was like 'lol family attachments are GREAT' and let Grogu stay with his papa??? Anyways if you don't know who Ezra Bridger is he's a jedi from Star Wars Rebels and he's :') he's just great
> 
> 2) Omera was a Padawan at a very late age 10/nearly 11 at the end of the Clone Wars 
> 
> 3) I imagined Omera's little Padawan haircut to be like T'Pol's from Star Trek Enterprise lol little Vulcan hair
> 
> 4) Din internally: I have no clue what half these words mean but I love her so much and I know that this is deeply emotional for her and I understand loosing everyone important to you as a child
> 
> Please tell me what you think!! I hope you liked this :3 thanks so much for reading <3


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